


The Next Six Weeks

by SHARKMARTINI



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Fantasizing, I'm just basically trash, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, PWP, Pre-Canon, SnowBaz, Sorry Not Sorry, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6753646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHARKMARTINI/pseuds/SHARKMARTINI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wouldn't give me a single moment of solace to sort through my feelings- or try to wank them away"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Six Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> This story has no plot or redeeming features. Takes place during fifth year at Watford.

The room smelled like smoke. A dampness hung in the air, heavy and lingering despite the open windows. Baz was surprised to find the room empty, Snow usually showered and got straight into bed afterwards, pretending to sleep while he watched him get ready for bed. For someone who hated him, openly and with venom Snow was doing a lot of staring these days.

Staring may have been an understatement. The end of their 4th year had been especially bitter, and after a long summer of what Baz assumed was mutual stewing, their relationship had progressed to straight up stalking. Or rather, Snow had dispensed with any subtlety he thought he had possessed and had begun to aggressively tail him like a rabid blood hound. 

For sworn enemies, they were spending a lot of time together these days- or rather, spending a lot of time in the vicinity of each other, which was starting to become a problem- at least for Baz. Snow's eyes trailing him in the morning as he got up and got ready for his shower. Snow watching him sip at his morning mug of tea in the dining hall, Snow watching him during Greek, political science, elocution. It hadn't taken him very long to notice his new shadow, and even less to notice that he wasn't entirely unaffected by the newfound attention.

To be fair, he was used to having Snow's attention, in fact he's always taken for granted the fact that he's been the center of Snow's rather unimpressive attention span. But what is new is his reaction to it. Baz has had enough practice to know how to play the game: he sneers, he smirks, he pushes Snow- provoking displays of anger, sputtering, and angry sputtering. But for every familiar reaction to this old routine there are new problems to be wrangled: a quickened heartbeat, moments of breathlessness, an awkward constriction of something deep in his chest [it's not his heart, it can't be his heart. He doesn't have one- at least not where Snow is concerned]. And yet-

He wants to sit down and finish researching Latin suffixes for his essay. He wants to change into his pyjamas and brush the cobwebs from his hair. He wants to get into the shower and surround himself with that smell- green fire and smoke. And that, that's something new. Baz sighs to himself and tries to talk himself down, but he knows it's a done deal and when he pulls open the glass door to the shower he can barely bring himself to feel the self-loathing he carries as penance. 

The water burns just a touch too hot to be comfortable, and the smell is even stronger in here. If Baz closes his eyes he can almost believe Snow is nearby, watching, always watching. He's playing a dangerous game with himself, and briefly he tries to think about anything else- tomorrow's football practice, the interesting book he managed to find hidden in the library, the exact colour and shape of Snow's eyes. Crowley.

Those eyes, he knows they're not even especially notable- blue, just plain blue- and yet he knows those eyes, knows the weight of their gaze and feels a tug in his abdomen as he imagines them on him now. Would Snow like him better, wet and flushed with the heat from the shower, warm to the touch? The idea is electrifying and should disgust him, but all he feels is a familiar heat pooling in his stomach- he should really be thinking about else, anything at all. Instead, he runs his hand along the inside of his thigh and turns his thoughts back towards Snow- Simon- and wonders whether he'd be able to feel the warmth of his hands on his body under the hot spray of the shower. Surely he would, he imagines Simon's touch would be just like a rest of him, a burning unyielding heat.

He feels light headed, dizzy with the thick fragrant air he keeps breathing in as he closes his eyes and traces a path along the most sensitive parts of himself- his neck, his clavicle, the furrow below his iliac crest- and tries to imagine the smouldering burn of Simon's hands, the wet press of his mouth.

He would never admit to anyone, will barely admit it to himself, but Baz has put more thought into what he thinks kissing Simon Snow would be like than can be attributed to academic curiosity. He knows he is horrendously out of his depth but he trusts Simon would know what he's doing, would make it good for him. He keeps all of these romantic notions about how Simon would taste, but deep down he knows it's nothing but an elaborate fantasy- Simon would simply taste like whatever he had just managed to stuff into his mouth- his beloved sour cherry scones, roast beef, butter. It should ruin the fantasy but Baz has always known he's just a little insane and finds it better, hotter, that Simon would do something like kiss Baz right after he's eaten- like kissing him is important, like he needs it, like he wants it the way he wants second helpings and even after that, more. Simon is disgusting, he himself is disgusting.

Baz finally gives up all pretence and wraps a hand around himself, giving a slow tug. He grunts and grips himself harder- it feels good, so good. He knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't be wanking over his insufferable roommate, but then he's thinking, really imagining Snow and even his conscience shuts up to enjoy it.

He and Snow never change in front of each other, but they've been living together long enough for Baz to know the smooth expanse of his chest, the slide of muscles under the endless expanse of honeyed skin. He imagines how fit he would look, pressed tight to his front against the tile of the shower, the swell of movement as they wrap around each other. He has a list now, of all the things he plans on doing once he gets [if he ever gets] Snow under his hands. The idea of running his tongue along the pattern of moles down Snow's neck alone makes Baz weak in the knees with desire. Tugging at the mess of curls, feeling the smooth press of teeth against the tip of his tongue, kneading his fingers into the muscles at his shoulders, pushing Snow to his knees.

He feels his breaths speed up and he leans forwards, pressing his forehead to the smooth tile as he fights to control his laboured breathing. He grits his teeth and tugs at himself faster, harder as he pictures it- he's used to having to look down on Snow, but the thought of towering over him, watching Snow's eyes falling shut as he surrenders to desire, proof that he's wanted just as much as he wants, wants, wants. 

A sudden crash and a yelp right outside the bathroom door rings out and Baz jumps, startled out of his reverie. "Crowley, Snow!" He manages to huff out, closing his eyes again and breathing hard. He feels the remains of his arousal thick under his skin and toys with the idea of trying to chase it back. Another crash and a string of curses interrupts again and Baz knows his time is up. He yanks the tap, turning off the water with more force than is strictly necessary, towels off and dresses with cold efficiency. 

He tries to relax as he opens the door, it wouldn't do to let Snow see how frustrated he is, even if he is the reason. Snow is sitting on his bed, half a sandwich in his lap and squinting suspiciously his way. Baz notices, and then immediately forces himself to ignore how soft he looks, shirt opened at the collar and hair tousled. 

"It's not morning." The world of Mages is really screwed if this is the best hope they have for salvation. Sometimes he can't believe Snow is for real, but if he's learned anything by living with him for the past four and a half years, it's that what you see with Snow is what you get. He's not in the mood to play the game, not tonight but he lets his frustration get the best of him. Besides, there are few pleasures in life as satisfying as getting under Snow's skin.

"Well assessed Snow, you have a real knack for telling the time of day." He feels himself smirking, watching Snow slowly working out the what he's hearing. And then the blustering starts. Baz would never admit it to anyone but it's kind of endearing, watching Snow going ballistic over something he's said. 

"Oh shove off- you know what I mean. You normally shower in the morning." For a split second Baz feels himself freeze in panic before forcing himself to relax. There's no way Snow would know what he'd been doing, and in fact it was a very normal thing to do, showering before bed. Besides, this is his room too and Baz doesn't need to defend himself against anyone, least of all Snow.

"Although I'm flattered that you've noticed, I wasn't actually under the impression that I required your approval before doing anything."

"What are you plotting?" This type of half-witted question is Snow's specialty, and Baz isn't surprised by it. His traitorous brain hasn't quite managed to switch gears yet though and he hysterically tries to repress all the inappropriate answers that come to mind:  
• "I want to know what your pulse feels like under my tongue"  
• "I need to find a way to get my hands on you without being run through with your sword"  
• "I'm trying to figure out how to get you to blow me in the shower"

It's too much, too much. Instead he sneers and hurries out of the room as quickly as he can manage without making it look like he's running away. Simon bloody Snow. He doesn't stop until he's deep in the catacombs again, until he finally lets himself fall forwards, bracing himself with his hands.

Blimey. He's going out of his mind. He hears the scurrying of rats in the shadows, but he's already fed. Instead he takes deeps breaths, the familiar tang of earth and decay and tries to hold onto his sanity. Six more weeks. That's all he needs to get through. Six more weeks and summer break will begin and then he can go home and wank himself raw to thoughts of Snow, get it out of his system.

And he will- get over him that is. Because he knows, even for all his fantasizing that Simon Snow isn't his destiny. They are enemies, and Baz will die fighting him just as he is expected to. And no amount of pathetic pining and sad wanking will change that. It shouldn't be a comforting thought, but it calms him down. It's the truth, and this- thing- whatever he's feeling, it can't last. It won't last. 

He just needs to survive the next six weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> That line in the book literally killed me, and when I couldn't find a fanfic that elaborated on it I knew it was time to guarantee my spot in hell and write this. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
